Kings Rising (Captive Prince 3)

He waved over some wine. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ said Laurent, and found somewhere else to put his eyes. They were clearing the field for the okton.

‘What can we expect next? I really feel,’ said Vannes, ‘it might be anything.’

On the field the okton targets were being set at spaced intervals. Nikandros stood up.

‘I’m going to inspect the spears that will be used in the okton. I would be honoured,’ said Nikandros, ‘if you would join me.’

He said it to Damen. Checking over his equipment in meticulous detail before an okton had been Damen’s habit since boyhood, and it appealed to Damen that during the lull between events, the King should tour the tents, view the weaponry, and greet the stewards and those men who would be his competitors and were outfitting themselves for the ride.

He stood. On their way to the tent, they reminisced about past contests. Damen was undefeated in the okton, but Nikandros was his closest competitor and excelled at throws made from a turn. Damen’s spirits rose. It would feel good to compete again. He lifted the tent flap and stepped inside.

There was no one in the tent. Damen turned to see Nikandros advancing on him.

‘What—’

A rough, painful grip closed on his upper arm. Startled, he let it happen, never thinking for a moment of Nikandros as a threat. He allowed himself to be pushed backwards, allowed Nikandros to take hold of a fistful of fabric at his shoulder, and yank it, hard.

‘Nikandros—’

He was staring at Nikandros in confusion, with his clothing hanging from his waist, and Nikandros was staring back at him.

Nikandros said, ‘Your back.’

Damen flushed. Nikandros was staring at him as if he had needed to see it up close to believe it. The exposure was a shock. He knew . . . He knew there was scarring. He knew it extended across his shoulders, down to his mid-back. He knew the scars had been well taken care of. They didn’t pull. They didn’t twinge, even during the most strenuous sword work. The smelly salves that Paschal had administered had seen to that. But he had never taken himself to a mirror and looked at them.

Now his mirror was Nikandros’s eyes, the stark horror in his expression. Nikandros turned him, put his hands on Damen’s body, spreading them over Damen’s back, as if touch would confirm what his eyes wouldn’t believe.

‘Who did this to you?’

‘I did,’ Laurent said.

Damen turned.

Laurent stood in the entryway of the tent. He was arranged with elegant grace and his lazy, blue-eyed attention was all on Nikandros.

Laurent said, ‘I meant to kill him, but my uncle wouldn’t let me.’

Nikandros took an impotent step forward but Damen already had a restrain

ing hand on his arm. Nikandros’s hand had gone to the hilt of his sword. His eyes were on Laurent furiously.

Laurent said, ‘He sucked my cock too.’

Nikandros said, ‘Exalted, I beg permission to challenge the Prince of Vere to a duel of honour for the insult that he has done to you.’

‘Denied,’ said Damen.

‘You see?’ said Laurent. ‘He has forgiven me for the small matter of the whip. I have forgiven him for the small matter of killing my brother. All praise the alliance.’

‘You flayed the skin from his back.’

‘Not personally. I just watched while I had my man do it.’

Laurent said it with a fronded, long-lashed gaze. Nikandros looked physically sick with the effort of repressing his anger.

‘How many lashes was it? Fifty? One hundred? He might have died!’